AUTHOR'S NOTES: This story is for everyone out there who got their
heart broken on-line.

..."I don't know if this is going to burst your bubble or not... but
I don't want to see you to end our relationship, because at this
moment we don't really have one, do we ? I would like to talk to you
about what, if anything, we can do about that, what possibilities
are open to us, and what the future is for us. That is why I want to
see you in person..."

You can feel the tears stinging in your eyes as you read the
paragraph over and over again. Your eyes check, for the fifth
time, the date when the e-mail was sent. It still read February 14,
2000.

You bit your lip when you feel that the tears are getting closer to
spilling. You don't want to cry in here, in the office. You don't
want him to see you cry. You don't want to see the worry in his
eyes and you certainly don't feel like explaining to him why you're
crying over an e-mail.

You also don't want to see his hurt expression when it dawns on him
that you've been 'dating' someone else and that the so-called 'date'
has ripped your heart to pieces on Valentine's day.
Do you really call meeting in chat rooms a date? Well, for all
practical purposes you do. You were dating him. You spend all
your free hours on-line talking with him. You wrote e-mails back and
forth while in the office. You signed such e-mails with words such
as 'Love', 'Forever Yours', 'Your beloved'...

He made you feel alive.

He also made you feel like a fool.

You can't believe you were so stupid and naive as to believe you
could find 'true love' on a personal ad. It had been Ellen's idea,
and you gave it a shot one Sunday morning when you were bored out of
your skull after spending yet another weekend at home.

It's not that you don't cherish being at home, not with the complex
life you lead. More often than not it is a blessing to be able to
close the door and live in a world where no murderers, psychos,
mutants, conspiracies or aliens exist. To be blissfully ignorant and
escape form reality one in a while is something you treasure.

The only problem with escaping the big bad world out there is that
you had lots of time to explore your big bad world in here. Your
Scully world. Or, more accurately, your Dana world. that world that
you so fiercely keep hidden form everyone else lest they think you're
weak, or, Heaven forbid, that you're a female.

It's the world where you down a pint or two of ice cream once a month
when your period blues hit you. Where 'Medical Journal' and
'Pathology Today' leave way for more frivolous readings such as
Judith Krantz or Mary Higgins Clark or even a Harlequin romance.
Where your chic and severe, dress-for-success power suits are put
away for a day or two, allowing the soft textures and pastel tones to
make an appearance, even your old baby pink cashmere cardigan that's
been with you since forever and you so much love to wrap yourself in
when you're feeling down and romantic.

Yes. Romantic. Dana's world is a place where you're allowed to show
your romantic side. Where you cry while watching sappy movies, no
matter how many times you've seen them. "Love Story" will get to you
anytime, even if you've seen it 18 times already. Any Meg Ryan film
will do, as well. And if she's paired with Tom Hanks or Andy Garcia
or Nicholas Cage you're a goner.

Letting go in Dana's world also means singing and crying alongside
your favourite tunes. Dana's world has no room for classical music.
You'll go with your youth favourites, those sappy, bubble-gum love
songs of the 80's, where you could get an animal cracker to slit
your wrists just for the sheer misery of it. And you belt out like
there's no tomorrow while John Waite claims he's not missing you at
all (talk about denial) or Pat Benatar firmly declares that you
belong.

But music also liberates you and you allow your body to move as it
pleases. Your rigid military upbringing jumps out of the window
every time you feel the urge to let go. Your body gyrates, shakes,
slithers, sways and contorts. You're better than Tom Cruise doing
risky business and Elizabeth Shue playing the babysitter. You wonder
what Mulder would say if he knew you wax your floors wearing socks
and underwear and sliding to the sway of the Backstreet Boys and
Shania Twain and Hanson. His eyebrows would probably hit the
ceiling and he'd consider opening an x-file on you. Again.

And it hits you. You've said it. The M word. Not marriage or
masturbation, but Mulder. The word brings out the best and the
worst in you. You start and begin with Mulder. You could thank him
and blame him for what your life has become. You both love him and
hate him and that would barely start describing what you feel for
him. Writing your physics dissertation would be child's play if you
ever tried explaining the interaction between the two of you.

But down here in Dana's world his name is a reminder more than
anything else. It reminds you of how lonely you feel at nights,
when you wake up at 2 am and the bed is big and cold and mostly empty
and you've almost forgotten how it feels like to share the bed with
someone other than a stuffed bear. It reminds you that you haven't
been on a date, a real date, ever since neon colours and bangs that
added a couple of inches to your height went out fashion. It reminds
you that the only voice besides your mother you hear on the phone is
his and that makes you feel lonely as well.

But, worst of all, it reminds you that you're still a woman beneath
the FBI agent facade and the doctor facade and the "don't-fuck-with-
me-cause-I'm-fine" facade. A woman with a romance starved soul and
a sex starved body. Basically, a woman who was drying up inside for
the lack of love.

It's not that you wouldn't love to love him. Part of you already does
and probably will do so forever. It's not that you don't find him
attractive, you're not blind to see the man is certifiably sexy. And
it's not that you don't know that he loves you as well. Deep in your
heart you're almost certain you'll end up together one of these days
and that that will be enough to last you for a couple of lifetimes.

So why are you sitting here, biting back the tears caused by another
man? Why, if you're so certain that him is it for you, did you go
trough the trouble of placing a personal ad? Why did you reply to
every letter you received and agreed to meet a couple of would-be
suitors? Why them and not him?

Is it because not everything is about him? That might have been true
a couple of years back, but not anymore. Is it cause you're so ripe
for a relationship that you're already rotting? That's something that
Mulder would say, and it wouldn't come close to explaining the way
you feel. Your restlessness. Your annoyance. Your reluctance to
acknowledge publicly what you've acknowledge to yourself so long ago.
You're his and he is yours. Signed, sealed and delivered. No turning
back, no warranty expires.

And yet...

The fact remains. Someone other than him has opened a gnash in your
heart. Maybe not a huge one, but big enough for it to bleed. And
since denial is used just for Mulder, you'll admit your pride is also
a bit wounded. More than a bit, actually.

If there's such a thing as heartbreak, is there such a thing as
pridebreak? Cause you have the annoying suspicion that, after the
initial shock, that's what you're suffering from. You knew from the
start it was not going to work. The man was sweet and had a great
sense of humour, but no sparks went flying when they had finally met
Then you had an argument over work vs. relationship. You
thought you had reached an agreement and things were going to remain
the same. Apparently he didn't share your views.

Deep inside you knew this was bound to happen. But you kept at it
just the same. Maybe you wanted to feel attractive. Maybe you
wanted to know guys still find you desirable. Maybe you wanted to
prove to yourself you could still do it. How does that song you like
so much go? You bleed just to know you're alive? Is that it? You
just wanted to feel alive? Loved? Wanted?

You hear him whispering you name and you look up to see the concern
in his eyes. You shake your head and smile as reassuringly as
possible while a quick flick of your wrist deletes the message. Later
tonight when you get home you'll delete your account at the personal
ads.

You proved what you needed to prove.

You're the only one who can burst your bubbles. And, at least for
today, the only bubbles you feel like bursting are the ones in your
bubble bath.

THE END

MORE AUTHOR'S NOTES: Since Scully and I are more less close in age
I took the liberty of deciding she might have
enjoyed some of the things I did. You'll have
to excuse if there's a wee bit more of me than
of her in here, but I'm assuming she can't be
KickAss!Scully 24/7 and she'll have some
'girlie' moments as well.

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